Follow Me
by pigpuffpickle
Summary: John wakes up and finds he's been in a coma for a year, and his whole life with Sherlock never happened. Warning: Character death, angst. Oneshot.


**-Follow Me-**

**-A Sherlock Fanfiction-**

John bundled through the door, armed with Tesco bags. Sherlock was lying on the couch, hands in typical prayer fashion, and he looked up at the ceiling mumbling to himself.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's head snapped up, and he staring at John intensely, "What?"

John shrugged his shoulders, and motioned to the bags he was holding, "A little help?"

Sherlock scoffed, and John rolled his eyes, sighed heavily before taking the bags into the kitchen and dumping them on the table.

"Chinese tonight? I can't be bothered cooking, oh, and Sherlock?" John turned, and Sherlock looked up again, "I bought a carton of milk. I still want there to be some milk by tomorrow morning, ok?"

Sherlock snorted, and his phone began to ring. He spoke down the phone as John put away the shopping.

Sherlock swung his legs around, and sat upright, "We have a case, double murder, according to Lestrade. We should get down quickly, because Anderson is down there and I don't want him to ruin any evidence," He was texting the whole time he wrote.

He looked round to see John leaning over the sink, panting.

"John, are you ok?" Sherlock raised his eyebrow. John turned.

"John, you don't look well at all. Do you want to lie down, and come by the crime scene when you fell well?"

John shook his head, and grimaced, "No, it's just a headache,"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow again, but said no more.

By the time they arrived at the crime scene (A small apartment on the other side of London) John still didn't feel better. If anything, he felt worse. When did the world get so bright? Why did everyone's voice sound so far away?

He could barely hear Lestrade as he explained the case to him.

And since when was he lying down?

Was that Sherlock leaning over him? What is he saying?

John slipped into the darkness just as Sherlock called an ambulance.

OoOoOoOo

John blinked once, twice, before he fully opened his eyes and looked around. He was in a hospital room, hooked up to some sort of machine.

Was that Molly at the end of the bed?

"Molly?" He said slowly, his voice groggy and slow. The woman looked up, and tears whelmed up in her eyes.

"I'm not Molly. Oh God, you don't remember me, do you?" She began to cry, and John didn't do anything about it. What was he meant to do?

"Where is Sherlock?"

The woman, the "not Molly" froze in mid-cry, and looked up, "John, Sherlock died a year ago, in the car crash that put you in a coma,"

John sat up sharply, "WHAT?"

A doctor slipped into the room, "Perhaps you should leave Mrs. Watson. John's only just woke up, and he's clearly confused. We'll get a doctor to explain what happened to him,"

"Wait, what happened to me? And why did you call her Mrs. Watson? What is going on?" John's voice rose.

"No, let me stay," The woman, Mrs. Watson as the doctor called her, begged, "I'll explain it to him, please,"

The doctor looked at John, "Is that ok with you?" John found himself nodding. The doctor hesitantly left the room.

"What happened? What happened to Sherlock?" John asked over and over.

"I'll tell you," Mrs. Watson said, "I'll tell you, just, please don't talk until I'm finished,"

John nodded in agreement. Finally; an explanation.

"I'm Harry Watson, your wife,"

"You're not my wife, Harry's not my wife, Harry is my sister. My _lesbian_ sister,"

Mrs. Watson, Harry, inhaled sharply, "Don't talk,"

"Sorry,"

"We've been married for five years, and we had a daughter called Molly," She chuckled sadly, "She died a year ago too, in the car crash,"

John narrowed his eyes, but didn't say anything.

"She was fourteen. She wanted to work in a morgue when she was older," Another laugh, "I always said how morbid that was, but you always encouraged her. You had a brother called Jim, but you never got along and he was quite a bully. You had two brothers-in-law, my brothers, called Sherlock and Mycroft. You and Mycroft weren't that close, but you and Sherlock were best friends. You knew him before you knew me, and becoming brothers-in-laws only brought you even closer." She paused, and didn't look at John.

"Last year, you were driving with Sherlock, and you were going to go to the pub with some of your other mates, Greg and someone else. But first you had to drop Molly off at her violin lessons. It was winter, and the roads where icy, and a truck skidded and crash into you. Sherlock died instantly, and Molly died in hospital. You've been in a coma for a year, John. They said you'd never wake up...but here you are." Harry began to cry again.

John sat there numbly, "No," He whispered, "No, that isn't true,"

Harry grabbed his hand, but he pulled back, and shook his head right away, "No, no it isn't,"

"John..."

"No, Sherlock and I...we are flat mates, we solve crimes, and get bombs strapped to us, and this isn't true, no, it can't be true!"

John leapt out the bed, pulling the drips out his arms. He ran to the other side of the room, shaking his head frantically and curling into the corner as Harry tried to approach him, then the doctor.

His voice was quiet, and he hugged his knees, "No," He whispered.

OoOoOoOo

Over the course of the next few weeks, John underwent several tests. He had complete memory loss, and, according to the doctors, "Created an different world to cope with the loss of his loved ones, and this world has replaced the real one, and that is why he is having trouble trying to remember,"

But John knew this couldn't be real. That world, the one with Sherlock, seemed so right, so real. He can remember holding the carton of milk, the keys as he wrote blogs, everything. But, he was told none of that was real. He'd never even been in the army before.

He was finally allowed to go home. To the home he shared with Harry, his wife he can't even remember marrying.

He was horrified to discover the house he shared with Harry, his wife he can't even remember marrying, was intact 221B Baker Street.

John pushed open the door, his heart tight, half expecting Mrs Hudson to leap out and tell him the latest gossip or give him some shortbread.

But she didn't.

Harry led him upstairs, and into the apartment.

It was so different. No smiley face on the wall, no gunshots and most importantly, no skull on the mantelpiece.

Everything was so t_idy. _And modern. There was even a breakfast bar. John would never have lived somewhere like this.

John didn't let Harry know this was where he and Sherlock lived.

Harry let him get settled, and over the course of the next few weeks, John tried to slip into some form of life.

But he couldn't. He didn't wake up a three in the morning to the sound of the violin. There were no more gunshots when he was bored. There was no bloody harpoon lying in the corner. He even missed the rude comments. Hell, he even missed Anderson.

There was pictures over each room. Of John, and Harry and Molly. Molly when she was a baby. Molly proudly holding up her first tooth that had fallen out. And there was pictures of him and Sherlock golfing, or in the pub, or wearing horrible sweaters at Christmas.

Things Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, would never do.

One day, John came across the wedding photo album. He curled up on the brown leather couches, and flicked through it.

John looked younger, fitter, and he was smiling proudly while wearing a tuxedo. But he had a ridiculous haircut. He was standing next to Harry, who was wearing a beautiful white dress, her hair loosely pinned back.

Harry slipped into the room, holding Tesco bags, and John swallowed slightly. He watched as Harry put away the shopping, including a carton of milk, and turned back to John.

"I'm going to bed now,"

John nodded.

"Goodnight,"

"Goodnight,"

"I love you,"

John just stared at her. She sighed, and left. John wished he could have said it back, but he just couldn't.

He went back to look through the photo album. There was a picture of the wedding guests. His stomach sank when he recognised every one of them.

Sherlock, the best man, with longer, floppier hair. Mycroft, looking stern and serious, just like usual. Molly, younger, more innocent, with a little bridesmaid dress. Jim, looking annoyed. And other assorted faces, Greg, Sarah, Sally.

John didn't notice he was crying until he saw the edges of the pages getting damp.

He looked to the door of the room. He couldn't do this. This life. It wasn't like his other one.

He felt like a zombie, shuffling through each day without meaning.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He blinked, and suddenly, Sherlock was sitting in the seat across from him. John blinked again, and he disappeared.

John knew what he had to do.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John felt the air whip about him as he stood on top of St. Bart's hospital roof. The roof he woke up from a coma about seven weeks ago.

Where, in his world, Sherlock stood with Jim Moriarty.

John took a deep breath.

He turned, and saw Sherlock standing at the edge next to him. A ghost.

"See you in a minute," The ghost Sherlock took a step, and jumped off the building.

John looked forward. The sun was just beginning to rise. It wouldn't be long before people would begin to wake up, and make about their busy lives in London.

London, minus one person.

John held out his arms, and took a step forward.

He was with Sherlock now.

**A/N: Oh, don't yah just love a happy ending? Well...if you can call it happy. *awkward silence commences* **


End file.
